


Scrape the Sky, Scratch the Stars

by DreamingAmethystDragons



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Drabble, M/M, ja'far-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 06:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10211129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAmethystDragons/pseuds/DreamingAmethystDragons
Summary: Speak quick, hit harder.





	

The moon blazes overhead, more pitiless than the midday desert sun, and Ja’far whirls from around the pillars with his blades in his hand.  One lunge is all it takes, and he cuts through flesh and whirls away before the rattle of the death-gasp.  

He crouches, pulls his arms close to his sides.  In the shadows of the pillars hides Yamuraiha, desperately murmuring spells to knit muscle and halt lifeblood, while Sharrkan stands above, sword bared, expression taut.  And his, king, his king - 

Out they come, jackals with weapons crystal-glimmering in the unforgiving full moon light, heads covered and eyes grim.  Ja’far looks up, not so much moving his neck as he does his whole body; he straightens, widening his stance, letting one knife slide against stone as he rises.  He sees one body hesitate, step back; he stands tall, feeling the stiffness in the air so unlike the relief after the rainfall.  It tastes like iron; it molds around him like paper, and he tears through before anyone sets foot in the courtyard before him.

His body feels alive and he whirls close, hooking an ankle around a knee and grounding for the second needed just before his knife hits home.  Euphoria floods his bones and he ducks as a spearhead jabs overhead; arms grab him from behind so he loops his wires and  _ pulls _ .  

Bones crack and the pressure behind him slackens; he rolls free, aims, and his knife is locked in another’s  chest.  It’s power; it’s pure adrenaline, and it’s as terrifying as the fear that he left behind with his king, gasping and clutching at the wounds scratched across his belly.

He won’t die.  If he dies, it will be because he went down the wrong path; it will be because he erred, and Ja’far told him explicitly whose blade he’d die at in that case.

They fall, one by one; for all that the first ambush had taken them by surprise, these men are untrained and ineffective.  Ja’far pulls movement from his bones, pushing, remembering the only words he’s still taken to heart after he’d left the death-pit of his childhood -  _ hit fast, hit hard, make your hit the last _ .  The silver painting the marble tile darkens, until it is him and the stars and the heave of his own breath into the stillness.

He retreats, step by step; he ignores his hands that have locked into claws, the scream lodged in his throat. More fuel to the pyre, he thinks; more bones into the ashes, more clouds in his eyes to give breath to his king another day.  

Back to the wall and no one else is there; he takes the chance to glance into the alcove.  Sharrkan meets his eyes, face oddly expressionless; Yamu is still chanting, but the fist into his gut is either fear or hope ( _ which is worse, which is worse _ ) when Sinbad tilts his gaze up to his, eyes shuttered and mouth a thin slash against his face.

Let’s move, Ja’far says, and the pressure he feels is only the wire around his arms, not a hand squeezing around his heart.

Let’s go.

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from my tumblr account.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
